


The Last Thread

by BMRH



Series: The Private Stories of John Watson [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin Mary Morstan, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John Angst, John Watson's Reichenbach Feels, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Sherlock Gets Shot, St Bartholomew's Hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-02 22:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11519103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BMRH/pseuds/BMRH
Summary: “They say that when a human's world falls apart, it is in her nature to desperately cling to the last threads that offer some sort of stability. Right now, that was the badly injured man in the bed in front of me.” A missing scene from "His Last Vow" after the revelation of the truth about Mary at Baker Street. Part of "The Private Stories of John Watson" series.





	1. The Beeping Sound

**Author's Note:**

> It's just something short of a miracle that I'm finally releasing another fic! This one has been in progress for longer than I want to tell you and I felt at first that it got slightly "outdated" after the fourth season and its events. After a while though, I realised that I loved this character study and continued. This is a one shot that I'm releasing as a "three chapter" story and I will be finished posting the chapters by the end of the week. If you like the beginning of this story, check out my other works in "The Private Stories of John Watson" series.

**_My name is John Watson and this is the story about my life as a part of the life of Sherlock Holmes._ **

* * *

> **"Invisible threads are the strongest ties."**
> 
> **\- Friedrich Nietzsche**

 

_Beep... beep... beep... beep... beep…_

There are few sounds that can make you feel such divided feelings as the beeping sound of a monitor showing an electrocardiographic diagram. It could in all honesty possibly be one of the most annoying sounds ever to be created. During my medical studies I often pondered why no one had yet used it as a torture device because I was quite sure that any sane person could go absolutely crazy if being exposed to it for too long. Still, every doctor, paramedic or nurse eventually learned that there was one sound that was so much worse: the constant tone that meant that another life had left the surface of the earth. This meant that in contrast, that annoying beeping sound could be one of the most beautiful sounds in the world, especially when it reflected the continuing life of a loved one. Even though I knew this, the sound of the monitor really did make everything else feel unimportant as I listened to it in a small white room at St Bart’s hospital, grateful for every heartbeat and occasionally strained breath from the man in the bed beside me. The man people called 'boffin', 'psychopath', 'weirdo', 'freak'... The man I called _my best friend_.

Time had just passed 3:00 AM. The room was dark except for the dim light from a small table lamp by the window. I had placed one of the uncomfortable visitor's chairs beside the bed and now I sat and rested my head against my hand and I stared blankly into thin air. It was now many hours since I had followed Sherlock in the ambulance that had rushed him from Baker Street to the hospital. He was upon arrival sent strait into surgery for internal bleedings for the second time this week. Two hours later the doctor came and told me that they had at least successfully stopped the bleedings and that my friend was out of immediate danger. He was rolled into this recovery room some minutes later and had slept ever since, now for four long hours. I had watched by his side the whole time. 

I sighed loudly and rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand. God, I was so tired that I didn't even know what to do with myself. At the same time, I was completely unable to rest. My mind raced with thoughts about all that had happened during the last few days, as it had done all the way through the ambulance ride and in the haunting silence of the waiting room. My gaze fell upon my friend and I felt my stomach pull itself together. He was deadly pale, even more than usual, and particularly against the darkness of his messy hair. The exception was a slight redness around his closed eyes. The constant and violent pain that he definitely had been experiencing for the last few hours must have been absolutely intolerable. Now he was reconnected to the strong painkillers. Through a handful of IV’s the drugs were steadily pumped into his veins and they lulled his mind away from the dreadful pains and into a much needed rest, even if artificial. I wasn't even sure I wanted to know just _how_ much he was having, considering that his tolerance level was still very high. My guess was that the doctors had chosen the safe option over the insecure. At least a sedated person couldn't break out through the hospital window.

 _God_... He looked even worse than a few days ago. It would have been a lie to say that I wasn't disturbed by seeing him like this, being so seriously injured and terribly weak. It was not Sherlock Holmes, not my best friend. It just... wasn't...

I know it shouldn't have been a shocking realisation to find out that my best friend was neither indestructible nor immortal. Somehow though it had never seemed possible that he could be affected by anything really and especially after he came back from the dead. Sherlock had always been having this aura around him of being larger than life itself and even though I knew him better than most, I realised that I had myself almost begun to believe in the myth about him. Had I even realised yet just how close it was this time that I would have lost him for good? When the ambulance arrived I was told that he had indeed sustained internal bleedings because of the early movement with severe amnesia as a result, just as we both had suspected. What I hadn't expected to hear was that if he had been without medical attention for just a few more minutes, he wouldn't have survived at all. During this time did I, a trauma trained doctor, stand right beside and only focused on my lying wife. Have I ever felt more selfish than when the surgeon told me this? At least I can't think of any such time right now...

 _My lying wife_...

I closed my eyes and felt the crushing pain I had suppressed since we left Baker Street return. The woman I had married, and that was pregnant with my child, had lied to me from the very first moment that I met her. Mary Morstan was neither her real name nor identity. She was an _assassin_ , a cold blooded murderer with I don't know how many lives on her record. _She_ was the one who had shot Sherlock. For God's sake, she shot him to keep him silent! Almost took him away again and this time truly for good! I don't care what they both said. He flat-lined! One more moment and...

I buried my face in my right hand as the other one turned into a fist. _Nothing_ was true. She had tricked me and I had believed her so easily. Me, the doctor, the soldier, the bloody companion of master detective Sherlock Holmes! He had been right about me all along apparently. I truly was a complete idiot...

I thought again about the final words she had said to me from the street as I stepped into the ambulance.

_"Will you come home?"_

_Home_. Where was _that_ place? I had been sure that it was with her and that wherever she was, that place I would call home for the rest of my life. Now I didn't know at all what I could call home nor if I even had a home at all. Another wave of the absolutely crushing pain hit me in my chest again. I knew this feeling far too well. My world, my whole existence, was falling apart around me again. Like the night they told me that I had to leave Afghanistan on indefinite time. Like the morning when I saw the person who had changed my life for the better jump to his death right in front of me. I had been left on my own so many times. Somehow I had survived them all but this... this time... My _wife_... Right now I just didn't know how I would get through this or what to do and instead I only tried to focus again on the beeping sound that reflected the beating of the heart the thin electric cords was connected to. They say that when a human's world falls apart, it is in her nature to desperately cling to the last threads that offer some sort of stability. Right now, that was the badly injured man in the bed in front of me. Behind my loyalty I was in fact again very selfish. I stayed by Sherlock's side right now not because he really needed me. I stayed because I didn't know where else to go...


	2. What Really Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter is done and ready for release! Enjoy!

It was the sound of the electrocardiographic diagram momentarily changing its rhythm that made me snap out of my drifting thoughts and I turned my gaze to my friend again. Sherlock stirred slightly before opening his eyes as he was waking up from his drug infused sleep. I could see in them that he was still quite far gone. He must have felt this too, something that seemed to annoy him because his gaze instantly went to the device controlling the strong painkillers. With a grimace that witnessed about the effort it took for him to move, he began to reach for the remote controlling them.

"You're sure you wanna do that?" I asked calmly. My friend's hand did actually pause in its movement but his eyes were still locked on the remote. He obviously took my advice though because not long after, he let out a heavy breath he had been holding on to and then fell back into the bed without changing anything.

"You did get your morphine." I muttered.

"Clearly." Sherlock answered. I pursed my lips in response and tried to focus on that he didn't seem to be in that much pain now compared to before, rather than just how constricted his pupils were.

"Where's Mary?" he asked, his voice quiet but controlled.

"Her name's not Mary." I answered sternly.

"That _wasn't_ my question. Where is she?"

He looked at me now with such a stare that even though he was weaker than I had ever seen him, I suddenly felt like an ashamed kid getting interrogated by his resolute parent. I lowered my gaze just as shamefully.

"I don't know..." I said under my breath.

Sherlock continued to look at me but said nothing in response to my answer. Instead he shifted his gaze to the ceiling and closed his eyes. To me, this was in fact an even more telling answer than any words could have been. I knew he was probably disappointed that I hadn't already forgiven her but he didn't understand. He just _didn't_ , like he never had when it came to emotional responses of human beings to betrayal and lies.

"Mycroft called." I said as I was trying to change the subject.

"Hmm, of course he did." Sherlock muttered with his eyes still closed. "What did he say?"

Mycroft had in fact said very little. During the short call about three hours ago he had mostly just asked if the surgery had gone well and if the traffic had moved out of the way for the ambulance, "like it _should_ have done." To be honest, I hadn't even noticed and didn't care enough to ask anything about it. Over the phone, the brother seemed just as calm as always though. Definitely more calm now than he had been three days ago. I may not be Sherlock but even I could understand that the way the man had tapped his umbrella to the hospital floor was not the movement of an unconcerned man that had the self-control of Mycroft Holmes.

I had of course realised during the years that the older Holmes brother wasn't just the powerful man obsessed with control that Sherlock made it sound like and what the man himself most of the time gave the light off. He had actually said on more than one occasion that he was indeed concerned about his little brother but I think his concern maybe went even deeper than I and possibly Sherlock had realised. It might be a stretch to use that particular word, especially when talking about the Holmes brothers, but I do think that Mycroft really loved Sherlock and very much wanted to make sure that nothing happened to him, like any other older brother would do. That he did this by getting control of every CCTV in the city was something that could be a little bit more discussed. Well, yes, he was most likely obsessed with control and no one could say that he wasn't a peculiar man. On the other hand, knowing his little brother as well as I did, should I really be surprised?

"I think he was more worried the last... time." I said as a short summarised version of my thoughts.

"He knew I had control of the situation this time."

"Yeah, this time the assassin could avoid shooting her husband's friend in the chest."

Sherlock slowly turned his head towards me, looking at me with tired but almost sympathetic eyes before closing them again. He said nothing, almost like he was unsure what to say. His hesitation was of course because he was silently defending her again. I turned my head away from him and clenched my jaw.

"You could have died."

My words were short and stern, something that was necessary as I was fighting against all the different feelings threatening to overwhelm me.

"I didn't." my friend said calmly.

"But you _could_ have."

I realised that I wasn't afraid of that fact. I was absolutely terrified. What would I have done if he had? First of all, I would have gone on with his murderer by my side without ever knowing the truth. I almost shuddered at the thought. Second, because of what happened three years ago, I knew I would never have believed that he was truly dead and would have been absolutely convinced that it was just another act. I know I would have searched for him until my last day. I would never have stopped. _Never_... 

Sherlock now looked at me with a gaze that was as difficult for me to read as it probably was easy for him to read mine.

"It doesn't matter anymore." he finally answered. "Only Magnussen and the information he has about Mary."

"It matters to me." I said quietly.

That was the point. It _did_ matter to me, more than he could ever imagine, and she _knew_ this. I had told her what Sherlock's death did to me. I had told her about my nightmares and she had seen my reaction to them herself, the third time that we slept together. But instead of getting second thoughts, she had taken my hand and had let me tell her the stories I hadn't told anyone else, the stories that made me take Ella's advice to start writing on my blog again. The day after was the first time that she followed me to the cemetery and as we stood there, I told her even more stories and she held my hand tight and smiled with me at the time Sherlock had taken the tube, covered in blood with a large harpoon in his hands or when he had stolen that bus, filled with tourists. I even told her about what had happened those hours before he died because that was the thing about her. From the moment I first met her, when I had worked at the medical centre for about three days, I felt like I could talk to her about everything. It continued during the first lunch we took together, the first time she asked me out. She listened to me and I listened to her, all her quite interesting anecdotes and cheeky jokes. She was smart, funny and beautiful. Maybe more importantly, she didn't tiptoe around me or was afraid to say something that could set me off. I felt better. I felt more alive again. Yes, I was slowly coming back to life and she was there with me. When I first said that I loved her, I had for the first time in a long while hope that I could stop fighting to live life from day to day and actually could plan for the future. I had loved her, we had slept together and we had moved in together, we married, she became pregnant... I _had_ loved her so much...

I leaned back into the chair and for a moment I stared blankly into space as the feeling of dejection filled my whole being.

"Everything has been a lie..."

"John, listen to me." Sherlock said, the tone in his voice now firm, or as firm as he could possibly muster at the moment. " _Not_ everything. Not the fact that she cares for you and loves you deeply. She did what she did because of you."

My expression hardened as I squeezed my eyes shut and I drew a deep and shaky breath through my nose.

"You're _not_ helping right now..."

Sherlock sighed and he pursed his lips before he spoke again.

"I may not understand much about love but I _do_ know what it's like to lie to people you care about to be able to protect them."

I looked back at Sherlock again and at his pale but thoughtful eyes, remembering more than well when they had been completely hollow and framed by the crimson blood on his face that morning more than three years ago. They had been just as hollow as my mind and soul when I finally had realised what just had happened and the hollowness was then followed by the horrible pain of guilt over the fact that I had been unable to save him. Another memory coming back to me was also my uncontrollable anger when I realised again that I had been deceived into believing in the scene I thought I had seen. I had been told, and by now had _partly_ understood, that he had done it all the way he had, with all the deception and all the lies, to protect me and the other people around him from the consequences of his game with Moriarty. Maybe I should have felt honoured or something that a man like Sherlock Holmes bothered to protect me? Yes... _protection_. That's what they both called it, both him and my wife. _Protection_...

“Well, maybe I don't wanna be 'protected' anymore.” I said. “You ever ask yourself that? You think you're my best friend because I want to be _safe_?”

“Neither is your wife.”

I fell silent, frowned and closed my eyes again.

"Is it true then?" I finally asked. "What she said? That I had already seen what she was?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and shook his head faintly in response.

"You probably did, and _didn't_ , just like I did."

I groaned. I hadn't thought of this before but the obvious question to this, and the confusion and frustration over it, quickly became the most relevant one in the matter.

"How is that even _possible_?" I hissed and sighed again while rubbing my tired eyes with my palms. "You see _everything_. How could _you_ not see it?"

"Maybe I... didn't _want_ to see it."

I looked up from my hands and now stared at him wistfully.

"Why?"

Sherlock was quiet a long time before he spoke again. During this time, it was clear in his eyes that he wasn't here anymore. That he was somewhere far away and deep down, God knows where, in his mind. Before he finally answered me, he narrowed his eyes while still looking into thin air. 

"Because she _wasn't_ like everyone else..."

I said nothing more. I only sighed yet again. The worst part wasn't that I didn't understand what he meant. It was exactly the opposite, that I _did_ and both from my own perspective and his. I had found it difficult that my life with a girlfriend couldn't co-exist with my life with Sherlock. When he had returned, I had been very angry and very cynical by his betrayal but also worried that this amazing woman was going to get uncomfortable of meeting him in real life, like all my other dates had been. She wasn't. She even liked him. How could I not marry a woman who liked the man who was a huge part of who I was before her? Who I was _now_?

_"Can you believe his nerve?"_   
_"I like him."_   
_"What?"_   
_"I like him."_

I should have understood. Sherlock knew he should _definitely_ have understood but I had also suspected for a long time that he cared more about what people thought about him than he wanted to admit. It had been too good of a match for the both of us. Maybe that is why he went through all this to help her? Maybe he thought it was for me, even though I still found it was hard to believe that this was the reason? Whatever it was he thought he did, I didn't want that to send him to his grave again.

"Promise me you'll stay here this time." I said to him. Sherlock took his time answering and he seemed to get slightly uncomfortable, clearly like as if this was a rather large request of me.

"If the information changes..."

"No." I said firmly. "Not 'if', not 'when'. Promise me, _please_."

I saw that he hesitated but then he finally nodded in confirmation.

"Okay, you have my word. Whatever you might think, I am in fact not particularly fond of dying."

"You haven't exactly tried to disprove it yet."

I felt my face turn into a sad smile. Equally, I could see an exhausted grin form on Sherlock's face.

"You were wrong, you know."

"Hmm?"

"They didn't need to restart your heart."

"Hmm." he snorted. I sighed and grinned even more. Even in a situation like this he wasn't pleased with being proved wrong. Well, of course he wasn't. He would rather die than being proved wrong, which was why I came in handy sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My poor John... What do you think? I read that passage when John thinks about how Mary was there for him after Sherlock died out loud to myself and actually cried. Mary helped John through his greif after Sherlock and maybe that's the reason why her lies hurts him so deeply because I think that he already has a very problematic relationship to lies. It was Moriarty's lies that killed Sherlock and it was Sherlock's lies that 'killed' John. I'm quite fond of the dialouge in this chapter. What about you? Does it capture their chemistry? Again, follow, leave kudos and comment! The last chapter will be up very soon.


	3. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post the final chapter a bit earlier than intended because it is so short. Anyway, enjoy!

Sherlock changed his focus again and his eyes flickered over me, clearly making a quick deduction of me from head to toe.

"You haven't slept in 39 hours. Go home and get some rest."

"No."

With the smile still on my face I squeezed my eyes shut again and shook my head, almost manically as I tried to repress all the painful emotions I suddenly felt overwhelm me with their full power.

"She might be there and... I'm sorry, I can't right now. I just… _can't_."

"Don't then." my friend said calmly. "Go to Baker Street. Take my key. It's in the coat."

 _Baker Street_. It sounded reasonable, more than I wanted to admit. Somehow I hadn't even thought about my old flat on Baker Street even though it wasn't many hours since we had left it. Only that I couldn't and _didn't_ want to leave Sherlock's side after everything that had happened. I looked down and breathed out heavily, still pressing my eyelids together.

"I'll wake Mrs Hudson." I finally said under my breath.

"Mrs Hudson doesn't sleep when she worries." Sherlock answered. "Considering our little... 'conversation' earlier and the way we left, I'm positive she's in fact still awake."

I drew another shaky breath, still looking down into my lap while I rest my head heavily against my hand. My whole being was absolutely exhausted. Of course I knew that it was much harder for me to keep my emotions at bay just because I was so extremely tired and I felt very embarrassed about the emotional breakdown I was having. Even in front of Sherlock, _especially_ in front of him. I did _not_ want him to see me like this but I feared that it would get even worse _if_ I left the room.

"Will you manage?" I tried to say steadily, looking now at my friend firmly as if it was him who needed me.

"Will you?" he answered, making it clear that he had of course seen through my feeble attempt at regaining some dignity. His reasonable and composed manner did though in fact calm me, to the point that I straitened my back and neck and then I nodded to him in confirmation. I then rose from the chair, felt the five hours of sitting down hurt in my legs as I did so, and walked over to the hanger where a single garment hung: the expensive long, dark coat with the red basted buttonholes. The coat that he had put on the first time I met him and that I after this always saw the back of as I ran after him through the streets of London, feeling the adrenaline pumping furiously in my veins…

_"That was ... that was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done!"  
"And you invaded Afghanistan?" _

"You should get some more sleep too." I said as I picked up the key from the inside pocket. Sherlock snorted again.

"I have already slept more than I have time for."

"You promised." I said, eying him warily.

"Don't worry. I haven't planned on breaking it."

"Or breaking _out_?"

My friend didn't even bother to roll his eyes at my bad joke. He only laughed tiredly but then flinched as his dark chuckles pulled at his already strained wounds. I went over to the bed and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't overdo it."

"Oh, when have I ever?"

I smiled again and shook my head.

"I’ll see you tomorrow."

I closed the door gently behind me and without looking back, I walked away from it. At first it was easy but all of a sudden, I found myself struggling to find my way back to the exit. That was one of the most peculiar things about hospitals. When you worked there it was just another part of your everyday routine but when someone close to you was lying there sick, everything outside those white walls ceased to exist and the hospital became like a place you had never set your foot in. My mom died at the same hospital, even the same clinic, that I did my ST practice on and I couldn't even find her room the morning when they called and told me that she was gone. Now I didn't know where my steps were leading me and they became harder and harder for me to take, like I was straining at the last thread more and more and with every step that I took I was getting more frightened that it would break.

Somehow I found my way down to the large corridor that led to the exit. As I rounded the final corner before entering it, I saw a very familiar man standing further down, resting with his back against the stone wall with one of his hands casually in his pocket while he checked his phone with the other. I had no idea why he was here but I looked down and sighed, almost in relief, when he saw me coming and left his spot by the wall and walked towards me.

"Need a ride home?"

"Yeah..." I nodded before I raised my head and corrected my posture. Detective inspector Greg Lestrade patted me sympathetically on my shoulder as we continued together towards the exit.

"Baker Street it is." he said.

As we walked towards his car, my hand wrapped itself harder around the familiar key in my palm. Some months ago, as we had furnished our first flat together, I had told the woman I knew as Mary Morstan that when people had thought that all hope was lost, that their case, or _life_ for that matter, was too strange for anyone to understand, there had always been Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes left for them. Maybe that was still the thing? The last thread is never really cut. Whatever the reason, whatever the problem, all roads _will_ lead back to Baker Street. Even for me. Maybe _always_ for me...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of this short scene about John’s pain and the love from people around him. The last paragraph is inspired by Mary’s last speech to Sherlock and John in "The Final Problem". I figured that this could have been something that she and John had talked about earlier and that is why she chose to say this to them when she wanted them to keep going and find support in each other again. Also, my thought was that Sherlock somehow had asked Lestrade to drive John home. When he did this, I don’t know. Let’s just say that he is Sherlock Holmes.*wink* So what did you think about this story and the final chapter? Please let me know in the comments and leave kudos! Thank you all so much!


End file.
